Intoxicated
by triforcelegends8
Summary: What are the consequences of John raping Sherlock? How will Sherlock cope? Will John get what he deserves? Follow me on tumblr at triforcelegends8fanfiction for updates on my progress!
1. Intoxicated

Johnlock- Intoxicated

It was the fifth time John had come home drunk this week. He stumbled in through the door to the flat smelling of sweat and alcohol, just like the last few times. He fumbled with the door for a bit before finally closing it, a goofy smile spreading across his face when he saw Sherlock. "Afta'noooon." He said, the alcohol slurring his words. Sherlock only nodded tensely in his direction as a response.

The last time John had come home like this, he had made some rather forceful advances on the detective.

They had been sitting on the couch side by side (Sherlock had wanted to make sure the man didn't hurt himself in his drunken state) watching some comedy on the telly. John was laughing much too loud at the terrible sitcom for the detective's liking when he suddenly went silent. Sherlock turned to see if he had finally passed out, but was surprised to see that the man was staring at him. Intensely so.

Sherlock just stared back, not sure whether to speak or turn back and pretend to watch the show more. But he didn't have to decide because then John moved. He leaned over the dark-haired man, putting his left arm on his side on the couch, his face mere inches away from his. His breathing was heavy and unsteady and his eyes were half-lidded and they were looking up and down Sherlock's face, mostly focusing on his mouth. In John's eyes there didn't seem to be any lust, well not any that the detective could see.

After a few moments of sitting like that, Sherlock decided to say something, "John, what are you-", but was immediately cut off by the man crashing his lips into Sherlock's. Both of their eyes were wide open, John's holding Sherlock's in hard gaze of lust and possession. The detective chose to close his eyes at that moment, the gaze of the doctor too intense. He could feel the man's tongue licking his lips and forcing its way into his mouth, mixing his alcohol-infused saliva with his. Sherlock made a muffled sound of disgust and put his hands on John's chest, trying to push him off.

But trying to push a trained military doctor when he was drunk and wanted something off of his slender frame was useless. It was especially impossible when John grabbed his wrists and pinned them behind his head on the back of the couch. Sherlock whimpered.

"John, s-stop…" He whispered.

John only pressed his mouth on Sherlock's neck and moaned, "Oh, Sherlock..."

The detective's mind was racing. Trying to find a way out of this situation without hurting himself or the doctor. But he couldn't think. _Why not? _He thought. _What's happening?_ _Think! Just think!_ It was hopeless, he finally realized. The chemicals being involuntarily released in his body was overriding his ability to use his mind the way he wanted. There was a reason he never partook in sexual or even platonic relations. Chemicals were a defect on the losing side and he could not tolerate being on the losing side.

Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson came upstairs before things had gotten too far. She had come wanting to know if they had any tea they were willing to spare and had mercifully interrupted John's sexual advances. John had jumped back off of Sherlock and seemed to go a ghostly pale color, the previous red color draining from his face. The woman only giggled and went back downstairs, thinking that Sherlock had been a part of what the man had just done.

But, thankfully, that interruption had deterred the doctor enough to stop for the night. Once Mrs. Hudson was gone, he went upstairs to his bedroom. Sherlock just sat there and stared into space, absolutely stunned by what had just happened. He could almost be traumatized. But Sherlock Holmes didn't get traumatized. He was Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. That meant he didn't have feelings like this, didn't care for them. And he got over it.

But now, John was looking at him again, standing in front of the door with a smirk on his face. And Sherlock was afraid. He could feel it. His heart was beating faster, his breathing rate increased, his eyes took in more light and details, meaning his pupils were dilated from the fear chemical being released, and, worst of all, he was shaking. It was just slightly, but it was enough for a person to notice. But maybe John wouldn't since he was drunk anyways. And he was rather dense, for an average person. The detective hoped that his lack of intellect and the added alcohol would be enough to keep him from noticing Sherlock's fear tells and pouncing on him like a predator does its prey.

Unfortunately, Sherlock's luck wasn't so gracious. John tilted his head and started to make his way slowly over to the sleuth, as if stalking prey. Sherlock swallowed and stared at the man, not sure whether to run or to stand his ground and fight against the doctor's future advances. He was running out of time, he realized. John was almost to the couch and the lust-filled gleam in his eye was growing the closer he got. The dark-haired man began to suddenly panic. He knew if he ran, John could definitely catch him and fighting wouldn't end up much better.

The only way was to try and talk John out of his stupor and make him realize what he wanted was not for him to take. But talking to a drunk wanting nothing but sex was near impossible, Sherlock thought, remembering last time he had tried to talk the man down. John had finally reached the couch when the detective was jarred from his thoughts. The man was standing next to him, towering over Sherlock, who was sitting low in his seat on the couch, and looked down on his with a smug smile, making the detective shrink even more into his seat.

"Sssherlooock…" John slurred. "You look… tired… c-come to be~ed won't ya?"

Sherlock shook his head slowly, trying his best to remain seen as being calm. "N-no, John. I am not tired and you know I don't sleep as often as you." He swallowed, afraid he had said too much and had given away his façade of a calm exterior.

It didn't matter either way whether he had deceived John or not on how calm or panicked he was because once Sherlock finished his sentence, John gave a deep frown and grabbed the dark-haired man's arm. He gripped his arm so tightly Sherlock winced and flinched away from John. But the sandy-haired man just stepped forward, following the dark-haired man's arm with his hands, and straddled his lap, effectively pinning him to the couch.

"John, no. Stop. Stop this, now John." Sherlock said, almost petrified with dread.

"Shhh… It's okaaay… It's fine, you're fiiiiine." John replied while lowering his head to Sherlock's neck. He used one hand to unbutton the top few buttons on the detective's shirt and buried his face on the curve of his neck. He kissed him lightly, at first, but soon open his mouth wide and sucked and nipped on the sensitive flesh. Without his own accord, Sherlock sighed as gasped at the doctor's actions, his mouth and tongue sending waves of electric pleasure all through his body.

John kept up his process of licking, sucking, and then biting the red and bruised area on the detective's neck for while, making him surprisingly hard, when he noticed the dark-haired man's arousal and started moving his hips back and forth, slowly, on Sherlock's lap. This only further hardened his erection and let him feel John's member, not yet hard because of the alcohol dulling his senses and reflexes.

When the doctor tired of biting Sherlock's neck, he returned to his mouth, more vigorous in his attempts to stick his tongue down the man's throat. His tongue forced its way into Sherlock's mouth and danced with his own tongue, mixing the saliva and alcohol together in their mouths. John, finally noticing the detective's hardness, leaned back and stared blatantly at Sherlock's crotch, smiling at the bulge in his pants. Boldly, he took the hand that was keeping the man's arm at bay and placed it on the lump that was Sherlock's erection and pressed down. Sherlock moaned and, without his own authorization, slightly bucked his hips up to meet the pressure of John's hand. John took this as a sign to keep pressing on the dark-haired man's member and started to undo the rest of the buttons on his shirt.

When the shirt was completely unbuttoned, John spread his other hand over Sherlock's chest, rubbing at his nipples. Sherlock's hands however, were grasping John's shirt at his back, trying to resist all urges to compel the man to go further. Sherlock shut his eyes and tried his best to focus on what he could do to get out of this situation. With ideas failing him, he moved his hands from the shorter man's back and laid them on his chest, pushing gently against him. This was no use as John pressed himself against Sherlock, rubbing their bodies together.

"J-John…" Sherlock whispered. "Please… ah… stop this…. Please…." He begged, trying his best to sound scared and pitiful. It wasn't too hard to sound that way.

John only mumbled a 'Uh-uh' under his breath and began to undo his own shirt, taking his hands off of Sherlock for a moment. The detective took this time to think of a plan once again and coming up with nothing. He couldn't get up, much less run from the man. He couldn't talk him down. He couldn't force the man off, and definitely not fight him off. It seemed hopeless. Utterly hopeless.

Sherlock whimpered when John finally got both of their shirts off and went to Sherlock's trousers, laying his fingers on the button and zipper. Clumsily, he undid the button and zipper on the detective's pants and sho0t his hand down between Sherlock's legs, gripping his member through the thin layer of his boxers.

"Get up and get in the bedroom." John ordered, sounding rather sober for a drunken man crazed with lust. Sherlock shook his head vigorously. The doctor tilted his head a little to the side and reached behind him. When his hand reappeared in front of the two, John was holding an army knife. Sherlock didn't even know he'd had one. He must have kept it well hidden from the detective for him to miss it. Now he definitely couldn't miss it, as it was lightly pressed against his throat.

"I said… get up and go to the bedroom." When Sherlock just stared in shocked silence John said more sternly, "**Now**."

Sherlock moved, letting John know he was doing what he was told, and made his way to the door to John's bedroom with shaky legs.

"No, Sherlock. Your bedroom." John chuckled with a smirk. Sherlock swallowed and walked slowly over to his bedroom door. He opened the door with shaking and sweaty hands, struggling to keep his emotions at bay. The dark-haired man wrapped his arms around himself, not because he was cold, but because he felt thoroughly violated, and looked at the bed in his room. It was clean and made up, like it should be, and there were clothes and books scattered around it. It was one of the most normal things about the man- his bedroom. There were no 'disgusting' experiments in here. No disembodied heads. No police reports or evidence from crime scenes. It was just a normal room containing his books on things that interested him.

And now John was going to take him in it.

Sherlock gulped and tore his gaze away from the bed to see John standing in the doorway with a bottle of something- lubrication, most likely- in his hand. He was still shirtless, but now he had his trousers off and Sherlock could clearly see his erection through his pants. He saw the doctor gesture to the bed, letting him know to get on it and lay down. The detective unfolded his arms from around him and crawled into the bed cautiously, as if it held some kind of explosive under the sheets. Getting under the covers, Sherlock looked back again at John, who was getting under with him.

The shorter man set the lube on the bedside table next to the bed and turned his full attention to Sherlock. He still had the knife. That meant the detective could do nothing but endure what was inevitable. And in his bedroom with the door closed, they wouldn't be interrupted again. John started off again with kissing the dark-haired man on the mouth roughly. He used the hand that wasn't holding the knife to grab Sherlock through his pants and press and squeeze him until he could feel precome wetting his boxers. That was when John sat up on his knees from laying on his side and pulled down Sherlock's pants, his hard member spring free. John smiled and licked his lips.

"Oh, Sherlock, you're beautiful…" he said, while stroking the man's erection. Sherlock whimpered and writhed under John's touch. Aside from the day before, he had never experienced anything remotely like this. He got and erection every now and then, but he ignored it until it went away. And, of course, no one ever wanted him. He was possibly the worst person alive. Who could want him?

John apparently did, known by the way he was touching him and himself. He grabbed Sherlock's hand and pressed it to his crotch, still clothed by the boxers. When the detective's hand met John's rock hard member, he gasped and closed his eyes. Maybe if he ignored it, this would all go away. Maybe it was just a dream. When he reopened his eyes, John was still there and their hands were still on each other's erections. The dark-haired man gave a whimper and a half sob and the realization that this was real. Although he didn't know why he was so afraid. It was just sex. Everyone did it and if he had to choose anyone in the world to have sex with him, it would be John. But why in the _hell_ was he so alarmed now?

He had no time to search for and answer because John was taking his own pants off now. His member sprang free from the restricting material and Sherlock stared. How could he not? John was wide and an average size- two inches thick and five inches long- making Sherlock gulp again. He was afraid because he thought it would hurt and that this would change him. He already knew it was hard to think when all the blood went straight to his cock. God knows what would happen to his mind if he went any further.

John stopped fondling Sherlock long enough to grab the lube and squirt some onto his dick, stroking it slowly to spread the liquid around. Sherlock just stared in frightened silence and watched the man crawl over him and lift his legs up. The dark-haired man began to truly panic.

"J-John. Please, s-stop. I-I… I don't want this. Please stop." He begged, whimpering when John just shook his head and leaned forward. Sherlock could feel the tip of the man's cock at his entrance. All he had to do was push his hip forward and he would be buried inside the detective's arse. He whispered, once again asking him to stop, "Please…." John only looked at Sherlock, holding fast his gaze, and pushed in.

Sherlock yelled out in a confusion of pain and pleasure as John's cock slid deep inside his arse. John moaned loudly and swore, mumbling, "Ah, god, Sherlock… fuck, you're… tight…" They stayed still, with John buried far inside Sherlock, while Sherlock clenched involuntarily and felt the man's cock throbbing hard. Then John started to move back out. He moved slowly, the flesh of his hard member dragging against the inside flesh of Sherlock's tight heat. The dark-haired man's mouth was open in shocked pleasure at the intrusion and he was finding it very hard to breathe.

When John was almost out, he stopped. He suddenly pushed back in, fast this time and hitting the bundle of nerves inside Sherlock, making him arch his back and yell out in pleasure. The sandy-haired man took this as encouragement and pulled back out and pushed back in again, faster this time. When Sherlock only moaned again and clenched around the man's throbbing member he began thrusting into the man, hard and fast. He hit the spot each time that made Sherlock see stars and feel numb, but alive all over.

Sherlock could feel John rubbing him raw inside and could feel an intense pressure building in his cock. A few more seconds of this and he was done. And there was no stopping John now. It seemed that the doctor was reaching his end as well, as he was thrusting faster, pounding hard into the detective. Sherlock, not able to take anymore, was thrown over the edge, his cum shooting from the tip of his quivering member landing on his chest and stomach. When he came he clenched down on John hard enough to make him climax as well. John came hard and fast inside the detective, filling him with his seed, making an unseen mark that the man was his. Sherlock yelled when he felt the warm liquid fill him, making him grab himself and finish his own climax.

When they both finished, they were panting hard and John was still inside Sherlock, throbbing slightly. The doctor had collapsed onto the detective and they could feel each other's chest heaving, gasping for air. Now, he lifted himself up with weak arms and looked at Sherlock with a smug look on his face.

"That… was-"

Sherlock cut him off, "Don't. Just get…out… of me and leave the room."

John gave Sherlock a confused look before shrugging and abruptly pulling out of the man, making him gasp in slight pain. He grabbed his boxers, the only article of clothing he had worn into the room, and left with them in his hand long with the knife and lubricant. When he was gone and the door was shut, Sherlock sighed, laid down on his back, and stared at the ceiling. He had an unexpected sob escape his throat and he immediately covered his mouth, hoping John hadn't heard him. Thankfully, no one came back to the door and he turned on his stomach and sobbed into the pillow for a few minutes, letting all of his confusing emotions out before cleaning up the bed and laying back down in a clean pair of pants. Feeling utterly spent, he almost immediately went to sleep. He sincerely hope all of that was just a terrible nightmare. He would find out when he woke up in the morning for sure. If it wasn't a nightmare, John had hell to pay.


	2. Remember

Johnlock Intoxicated- Remember

Sherlock woke slowly, his eyes feeling swollen and stiff. He yawned and attempted to stretch, but when he moved, he felt a burning pain in his rear end. The man gasped, immediately flinched, and curled outward a bit from the sudden burn. He turned his head to look at the state of his bed- in complete disarray, smells like sweat and male ejaculate, dirty from sweat and dirt from bodies.

So it hadn't been just a nightmare. It had been real. John had… had actually… Sherlock shook his head, not wanting to believe his friend had actually done what he thought he had done. What he _knew_ he had done. John had… taken him, to put it lightly, without the detective's consent. He had threatened him with a weapon and had forced him into sex, something the man had never experienced before. And it had been terrible.

His first experience and John had turned it into a disgusting, lust-filled activity he thought he could do to Sherlock because he was drunk and the detective was weaker than him. The dark-haired man scoffed, hating John for what he had done to him. He laid there in the bed thinking over what could be done and what he had to do.

The doctor definitely had to pay for what he'd done, but what could Sherlock do? He wouldn't physically harm the man because it probably wouldn't do much good anyway. John could protect himself from the man's attacks and resorting to violence wasn't really Sherlock's style. No, if he was going to punish John, it had to be something more, something terrible, something devious. It had to be something to mess with his head, fuck him over mentally; in much the same way John had done physically. But what, exactly, could he do that would attain that goal?

His thought process was cut short by a sound coming from the kitchen- metal clinking together, water filling some sort of pitcher, metal on glass. John was making his morning tea, just as he always did. Sherlock assumed he would make tea for two as well. John was always thinking of Sherlock, taking care of him. And Sherlock trusted him. Well he _had_ trusted him before last night. Now however, he didn't know what to do regarding John.

The detective mulled over what he should do- act like it never happened? Or make John remember what he had done to him? The latter seemed more like torture if the man had forgotten because of his drunken state, but that was just what Sherlock was aiming for- torture. Pure, psychological torture. He threw the covers off his frame and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, wincing a bit as he forgot about the potential pain that would visit him. He stopped a sat on the bed for a few moments letting the throb of pain subside before slowly sliding down onto the floor. Maybe standing would be better that sitting.

Sherlock got up and stood by his bed, waiting for a sting of soreness, but it didn't come, at least not like before. Walking over to the closet, he grabbed a suit and was about to put it on when he thought it would make John more uncomfortable to just wear his robe and trousers. He smiled grimly to himself before replacing the suit and found a pair of slack pajama trousers and his robe, wrapping it around his torso. Exhaling a steadying breath, he opened the door.

John was in the kitchen, just as he suspected, making tea and holding his head with one hand- hangover. At the sound of Sherlock's door opening John turned, a slight grimace already plastered on his face from the pounding headache. At seeing the detective, his brow furrowed for a moment before he paled and quickly turned back around, facing the stove where the water was boiling in a teapot. So he remembered. And it seemed he felt at least some sort of guilt over it all. But Sherlock was not content with him just feeling a bit guilty.

"Morning, John." Sherlock said in a rough tone. He knew that saying someone's name in a sentence made it personal and that was just how he intended to make this situation- personal.

John merely grunted a response and went back to holding his head. The detective narrowed his eyes and deduced the man- tense, he was nervous or the chemicals from sleep still haven't left his body which meant he hadn't yet used the bathroom, the headache was intense because he went straight down to the kitchen to brew a home remedy, facing away from Sherlock intentionally meaning he was definitely guilty. He had a good time last night, but hadn't considered the consequences of the morning after.

The dark-haired man sighed quietly, hating what John had done last night and hating that he had to give him recompense. But he had brought this on himself, and Sherlock was going to give him what he'd asked for. He looked down at himself to make sure he was exposed enough to cause discomfort, but not show too much of himself to John again. His robe was hanging off of one shoulder, his torso was bare, and the gray pajama bottoms were sagging low on his hips. He smiled and walked over to the man, taking notice that he had turned his head even farther away from him. Good- he was uncomfortable.

He stopped, close enough to John that he could feel his body heat through the man's sleeping shirt, and said again, "I said good morning, John." In fiercer tone.

After a few moments, John responded, "…M-morning." The detective had a small smile playing on his lips as he reached forward, brushing John's chest with his arm, and grabbed his mug of tea.

"Thank you for the tea, John."

"…yeah…" He said simply.

Sherlock stood there for a few moments, staring down the doctor, trying to convey the hate and betrayal he felt towards him. When he noticed that the man's breathing became quicker than before, he turned away and made for the couch. Instead of flopping onto the furniture like he normally did, he had to lay down easily so as not to feel the burn that John had caused. He set the cup of tea down and slowly eased himself onto the couch.

When he was nice and settled he let out a loud, contented sigh, loud enough for John to hear, and asked, "What do you want to do today, John?"

There was a moment of silence followed by a barely audible "Nothing really…" A few seconds later the sandy-haired man emerged from the kitchen with his tea and sat in his chair, taking care to not look in Sherlock's direction.

"We don't have to solve any cases today. You look a bit tired, John. We can just stay home."

John's lips thinned slightly and he hummed in response.

Sherlock got up from his position on the couch and stalked over to stand behind John's chair. He leaned down and rested his hands on his shoulders and lowered his head to the man's ear and whispered, "Why don't you try to fuck me again, John?"

At this, John's whole body visibly flinched and he made an odd sound, most likely choking on his tea. "W-what?" He stuttered.

"I asked you if you were going to try to fuck me again, John." He repeated. John went rigid and his breathing became ragged and uneven. Sherlock gave a huff of laughter and went to sit in his chair across from John. He slowly lowered himself down into the cushion and glared at the man. "Well? Have anything to say, John? Anything at all?" When all the taller man got in response was silence and the sandy-haired man staring at the floor tensely, he muttered, "You coward…"

At this John looked up, desperation in his eyes. "I'm not- I-" He choked on his words, unable to continue the thought.

"You what, John?" He started to lean forward, intending to rest his elbows on his knees, but quickly abandoned the idea when his arse flared in pain. He allowed the pain to reflect on his face for a few seconds, to let John know what he had caused. Sherlock leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs, arms on either side on the armrests.

"I… Sherlock…." He sighed and dropped his head in his hands. "I didn't mean- I never meant to- ah, Christ…"

"Oh, so you didn't mean to rape me? It just sort of… happened?"

"I didn't rape you!" John yelled whipping his head around the flat, afraid of someone might have heard him. "I- I… just… I was drunk and…" John sighed, frustrated at his inability to concoct and excuse for his actions last night.

"And what, John?" Sherlock asked in a bitter-sweet tone. "You weren't in control of you actions? It was the alcohol's fault?"

"No, I- well… No, no. I just- I didn't… rape you okay? Don't say that…"

"Why? Because it's easier to lie to yourself about what you did to me? I didn't want that, John." Sherlock said strictly, as if scolding a child. "You raped me. You raped me, fucked me, took me, did me, however you want to say it. I did not consent." The dark-haired man stared hard at John, waiting for a response.

When none came, Sherlock decided to speak again. "Do you remember it, John?"

The sandy-haired man looked up at Sherlock with red-rimmed eyes and a deep frown. "What?" He asked.

"Do you not remember me saying 'no' and 'stop'? That I didn't want what you forced on me?"

"…I do…." John replied.

"Good. I want you to remember every. Single. Second… of last night. Every second that you had your cock in me, every time you thrusted into me and made me moan in pleasure or cry out in pain, every second that you felt it was right, it was wonderful, pleasurable." Sherlock had gotten up now and was slowly walking towards John, his eyes fixed on his, his fierce gaze making the man squirm in his seat. "Because I want you to know that for every second you enjoyed me, I was dying. You killed me, John. You..." Sherlock's gaze flicked down for a moment and he swallowed bile and pride. "You broke me, John. Congratulations. You did a wonderful job. You should be proud of yourself." He practically spat venom in the last sentence at the man.

Before Sherlock reached the man's chair he made a sharp turn and walked towards his room. He planned to let John mull over what he had just said before trying anything else. The longer he had to think about it, the more he would hate himself for it and that was just what Sherlock needed him to do. Hate himself. Completely and thoroughly. A few hours should be good before he came out of his room again. He could busy himself with something else for that time. Then he could call Lestrade for a case and take John with him. To the outside world everything would seem normal, the same as always. But when it was just he and John, Sherlock would separate himself from the man, let him know he no longer trusted him to make him feel even guiltier. He wanted him to remember everything that had transpired last night. Sherlock certainly did. Making him remember and constantly reminding him was the only way to fuck with him the way Sherlock wanted to.

He smiled to himself evilly before realizing something- John hadn't even apologized. If he was truly remorseful, he would have apologized over and over to the detective until his throat hurt and his voice was hoarse. But he hadn't said sorry even once. Sherlock shook his head a little and dismissed it as John being too shocked with all that had happened to actually say sorry to the man. That was it. He was just in shock. But soon he would be truly sorry.


	3. Albatross

Johnlock Intoxicated- Albatross

When Sherlock was back in his room, he slammed the door shut to further convey his anger to John. Then, he stood there in the dark room, unlit, thinking about what had transpired the night before. He wasn't trying to think about it. He just was, without his own accord. He was thinking about how John had ordered him onto the bed and threatened him with a knife. How it seemed John had thought Sherlock enjoyed it at the end. How he had come even though he didn't want to. His body had betrayed him and put his mind second in command.

The dark-haired man took a shaky breath and started towards the bed to lie down and think more comfortably when he stopped. He was staring at the bed with wide, frightened eyes and his body was stock still. Memories of John taking him, forcing him into sex came flooding back to him. His breathing became labored and struggled to make its way out of his lungs. He could feel John's hands on him, the man's member hard inside him, moving in and out at a rough pace. Sherlock could hear John's breath against him as he worked his hips and his body against the detective. He gasped and lurched forward to get away from John and flailed his arms out behind him to ward off the man's advances.

But his arms met nothing, just the air behind him. His chest was still heaving, but he was calming down. Wrapping his arms around himself, he leaned against the wall and attempted to further control himself. He was breathing through his nose heavily and he became aware that his whole body was shaking. He couldn't think, couldn't hear, couldn't feel anything except the feeling of intense fear. He closed his eyes and tried to ground himself. He knew what had just happened to him. He had had a panic attack.

It was rather quick, for which he was thankful, but it was still disconcerting. He knew he had to give John recompense for what he'd done, but he hadn't planned on actually experiencing any repercussions himself. He was more messed up than he initially thought. He felt physical pain, yes, but that was expected. This… He never could have predicted he would have mental and psychological symptoms as well.

Sherlock, finally calm, suddenly felt extremely… unclean. He felt John's hands and their print still on his body, his chest, his arse, his back. He could still feel the alcohol-fueled kisses on his neck and the sweat and ejaculate all over him like a thick layer of mud covering his skin. Alarmed, he was about to open the door when he realized John was still probably out in the living room and would see him enter the bathroom. The man whimpered at his current dilemma. He _needed_ to wash up and get rid of the smell, the feeling of John's hands, and everything that had to do with John. But he was stuck in his room.

He began to breath quickly again and closed his eyes to prevent another attack. He was glad he was still intelligent enough to recognize the signs and triggers for the attacks. He took a few calming breaths and focused on the feel of the robe on his back instead of the ghost of John's hands. And he stood there with arms wrapped around himself, eyes closed, and body leaning against the wall for a while, just trying to keep calm.

After several minutes, he opened his eyes and tore himself away from the wall, making his way towards the only chair in his room. It was a normal wooden chair, not too comfortable, but it would be better than having panic attacks in the bed. He lowered himself down onto the uncomfortable chair, his weight leaning to one side and rested his hands on his knees. He needed to analyze what happened last night, but if he kept freaking out, it would be impossible. Sherlock grunted in anger and glared at the bed. Why did John do this to him? Why did Sherlock let John's actions affect him like this? He was supposed to be the only consulting detective, the machine, the freak who doesn't have feelings.

Instead of lying to himself any longer, Sherlock finally admitted that he did, in fact, have feelings: anger, sadness, happiness, and now, thanks to John, anxiety. Sherlock's hands clenched around his knees when he noticed something peculiar- he had the beginnings of an erection.

That _couldn't_ be right. What was wrong with him? He hadn't actually enjoyed what John had done to him, had he? The answer was in the affirmative for when he thought of John and his actions, his member gave a slight twitch. No. This could not be happening. He didn't get erections. Never. He couldn't begin to explain why he was getting one now of all times. He shifted a bit and gasped when he felt the cloth of his boxers rub against his half-hard cock. He immediately covered his mouth with his hand and refused to move any more until his erection went down.

_Why is this happening to me?_ He thought in despair. He shouldn't be getting off on what happened to him, what had been forced on him. _Maybe I liked it. Maybe I… wanted it…_ Sherlock's eyes widened at the impossible thought that tore through his mind. _No! I didn't want it, I… why did he do it then?_

Sherlock's more sane self focused on why John had raped him and not the act itself, which was easier and less anxiety inducing. He had to think. He had to use what he knew about rapists and apply it to John, no matter how hard it was to accept that his friend was now branded as a rapist in his mind.

The big question was 'Why did John rape him?' Why? Usually rape was an act of aggression or show of dominance towards the victim. That didn't seem to fit John very well. He was the most grounded person he knew, besides Mrs. Hudson. Was he angry about something? As the detective thought more, he wondered why John had started drinking in the first place. Stress at work? Possibly, but not very likely. It could also be his family in some way. Sherlock seemed to remember John talking about his parents and their financial issues and the ever-alcoholic Harry. But had that been enough to drive him to the bar every night for the past few nights? That didn't seem too likely either. John had been through so much more. He had been in Afghanistan for God's sake.

Sherlock's eyes widened with a sudden realization. Just recently they had solved a case involving soldiers. The murders had been grotesque and done like killing would have been in the battlefield. Maybe that had triggered anxiety in John and he didn't know how to really deal with it. Normally, he would go on cases with Sherlock to get rid of any anxiety involving his time in Afghanistan, but that case had been the only they had for a while. Or he would go to his therapist, but she didn't seem to help much before, let alone during that case.

But was that really all there was to it? There was no indication that the case had bothered John in any way. He seemed put off, at best, by the brutality of the murders, but so was everyone else. Sherlock growled and unconsciously brought his hands up to his face in his 'thinking position' and thought more about why John would have done such a heinous act to the dark-haired man. Since it rape was usually an act of aggression, there had to be a reason he did it to Sherlock. He was annoying at times, yes, and he could be a stubborn child as well, but he always was like that. John shouldn't just snap one day and commit rape because he was annoyed with Sherlock.

But maybe he had snapped. Sherlock's brow furrowed and his hands lowered a fraction. Maybe Sherlock's constant attitude and lack of respect towards the doctor had finally thrown John over the edge. Perhaps Sherlock had been too rude at some recent point in time that had put the man off and he felt Sherlock deserved… a lesson, so to speak.

Sherlock swallowed past the lump in his throat. That couldn't be it. Sherlock being Sherlock couldn't have made John want to punish him in the way he did. But all the facts were there. Now that Sherlock thought about it, John had seemed agitated quite a bit lately. And he was too caught up with acting like a child all the time to notice. He just assumed his friend was the same as always. He was writing his blog, he was going with Sherlock on cases, and he was nagging the detective about leaving disembodied body parts in the fridge, everything seemed normal.

But Sherlock of all people knew that looks could be deceiving. You had to _see_ what was there instead of just looking. But, unfortunately, that's all the sleuth had done these past few weeks regarding John. He hadn't stored any information regarding John lately into his mind. He didn't have his mind palace to go back to as a reliable source for analyzing John's recent behavior. All he had were his actions last night and the conversation they had had just moments ago. That wasn't much to go on. But it would have to be enough.

He thought back to the conversation. He had definitely recorded it and now he was analyzing John's body language- tense in the arms and legs, most likely sore, but relaxed in his shoulders and torso. Next was his speech- normal. That was definitely disconcerting. He should have been ridden with guilt, maybe even sick from it. But he was speaking normally, as if nothing was wrong. As if he didn't care that he had raped Sherlock. Nonetheless, the dark-haired man continued to analyze the recent interaction and noticed John's eyes. They were always staring coldly at Sherlock. Not in the normal 'it's a bit not good' stare, but calculatingly. He was deducing Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes, which were closed, snapped open. John was deducing him because he wanted to see if he had affected the detective. He was trying to gauge whether he had taught the man a lesson. He hadn't apologized because he wasn't sorry. He wanted him like this- scared and disarmed. And Sherlock let him know that he was affected thoroughly. That was the biggest mistake of his life.


	4. Broken

Johnlock Intoxicated- Broken Mind

"…You broke me, John. Congratulations. You did a wonderful job. You should be proud of yourself." Sherlock said with as much venom as he could muster. He got up from his chair and stalked off to his bedroom. John smiled when he heard the door slam shut. Sherlock was trying to let John know he was angry and it worked, but John didn't care.

All hew cared about was that he had 'broken' Sherlock. He figured the man was in his room now, thinking about why John had raped him and how he was going to deal with the situation. John's smile stretched to an unimaginable length. The detective, he knew, had never experienced anything like this. There was no denying that. He didn't have to be the world's only consulting detective to figure that one out. And he definitely hadn't experienced anything like this from someone he had _trusted_.

But he wouldn't be able to figure it out. For almost the entire time they had known each other, John had hidden the more violent side of his nature from his flatmate.

Years ago, John had questioned his sanity for wanting for force something like sex on a person. The first time, and John thought the last, had been with a girl he had been sweet on for a few months. He hadn't been able to stand her, but something had been keeping him there for all those months. One night, they had been kissing and touching each other, just making out, when John took the initiative to go a bit further. He had been pissed off with her for quite some time, for her just being who she was. She had been so kind and caring of others. She had never been able to hurt anyone or do anything aggressive.

Boring.

John had hated her and, at first, he didn't know why. But when he finally realized that what he craved was danger, anger, and aggressiveness, he took advantage of what he was given. And that included the girl he had taken. She told him to stop, but John was already too fueled with all of the things he hated about the girl to stop. He had practically ripped off her pants and panties, making her cry and sob. He roughly clasped a hand over her mouth and threatened to choke her, making her sob even more. Eventually, he had been able to penetrate her and it was glorious. For a girl he hated so much, he never imagined he could love doing anything so intimate to her. At some point, John didn't know when, she had stopped crying and trying to fight back and just laid there while he fucked her. He had cursed at her, told her what a 'dirty whore' she was and how 'stupid' and how she was a 'fucking idiot for being so nice'. When he had finished, he had told her that if she told anyone, he would go after her younger brother. He didn't really mean it, he was only 11 and John had been about 20, but it deterred the girl from running her mouth, nonetheless.

He had done the same to a few others, but it never quite fulfilled him like he thought it should have. So he stopped. Better to quit the habit before it becomes an addiction. So he hadn't raped anyone since he was 25. And he had gone to the army, had a few nights with some of the younger boys and was satisfied. Then he met Sherlock Holmes.

It hadn't been an instant decision to rape the man, but the moment he met him, the words _this one_ had echoed throughout his mind. When he moved in with him, he finally realized that he wanted to hurt him. Not just punch him or use some maneuver on him he had learned in the army, but really hurt him. Hurt him psychologically. Physically, yes, that would happen as well, but physical wounds heal, given time. Psychological ones, though…

John had come up with a plan. Gain the man's trust and then rape him. That was the plan. Not very elaborate, he knew, but the simpler the better. Less could go wrong. It was only when he felt it was getting time to act that he had added more details. He would come home drunk for a few nights and make Sherlock think he was having some sort of familial or personal problem. Then, the night of the attack, he would come home, sober, pretend to be drunk, and pounce on the man. He had to be sure to have a knife though. So instead of going to a bar the whole time, he'd run by a weapons shop on the way home. He had made sure to not give any indication of where he had been other than the bar and had hidden the knife behind him in his back in a pocket. His plan had worked flawlessly and now Sherlock was in his bedroom, hopefully going crazy.

John sighed contentedly. He thought to himself that he would have to try it again sometime, though he doubted the detective would let him get close ever again. But he could always use force again.

John shook the thought from his head. He had more important things to worry about, like keeping Sherlock quiet. He figured the man might try to tell Lestrade or Mycroft, but the doctor hoped that his pride would prevent that. He would most likely try to get the information about _why_ John had done what he had. Sherlock would never, could never find out why. The problem wasn't that Sherlock was unable to find out, it was that John needed him to remain ignorant about why for as long as possible. He _couldn't_ find out that John had craved hurting him, that he got off to imagining him begging for mercy and sobbing beneath him while he fucked him against his will. It hadn't been sexual at first. He just wanted to let the man know that John didn't like what a git he was and to let him know who was really in charge. But once he noticed the unique face Sherlock had, he had become increasingly aroused at the thought of raping the man. And he had done it. He had raped him, fucked him, and hurt him. And now…. now he was content and felt completely satisfied, at least for now.

John got up from his chair, curious about what Sherlock might be doing. He walked quietly down the hall to his bedroom and leaned his ear against the closed door.


	5. Sick

Johnlock Intoxicated- Sick

By the time Sherlock realized that letting John know he had been affected by the night before was a huge mistake, he felt more than heard or saw John's presence at the door. A quick glance down at the floor showed a shadow that wasn't normally there, verifying the detective's suspicions. Sherlock was breathing loudly and rapidly and he quickly covered his mouth with his hand to hide his distress. He would never let the man know that he had been affected so thoroughly that he was having panic attacks. He would rather die than let that happen.

Minutes passed as Sherlock stood stock still where he was, watching the floor where the shadow was slightly wavering and calming himself enough to control his breathing.

Then John spoke through the door. "Sherlock?" He said with a slight disappointed tone in his voice. Sherlock gasped when the doorknob wiggled as John tried to open the door. "You alright?" He asked, knowing full well Sherlock was definitely not alright. "Open the door." He commanded.

Sherlock only slowly shook his head, his eyes watering in fear of John making another advance on him. Panic gripped him in a death clutch as images of John on him again, fucking him, tore through his mind. He gasped and stumbled to the floor.

"Sherlock, open the door." John demanded trying the knob once more. "Let me in. Now."

The dark-haired man was softly sobbing on the floor when he realized if he didn't get ahold of himself, things could get worse for him. He needed to at least _act_ like he hadn't been affected. He needed to put on a mask. And quickly.

Sherlock slowly got up from the floor and wiped his face. His hand came away damp. He wiped his hand on his trousers and calmed himself. It wouldn't be the best veil he's ever put on, but it would do for now. All he needed to do was remain calm and impassive and he could deal with John for the moment being.

He shook his hands and walked towards the door. He opened it with a steady hand and cleared his head. "Yes?" Sherlock asked innocently.

John was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest and a small smile on his lips. He knew Sherlock had been panicking before and that he was wearing a mask now. "Nothing. Just wanted to check on you…" John said with false care.

The two stood in the doorway of Sherlock's bedroom for what seemed like ages but was only seconds. The air between them was tense. John could practically see Sherlock's fear in spite of his mask and Sherlock could almost taste John's sense of dominance. It was a predator and his prey both on the edge of fate. And the John wasn't the one about to fall.

"Just making sure you're… alright." John abruptly said, having had his fill of playing with Sherlock for the moment.

When John turned around and walked complacently into the kitchen Sherlock sighed heavily. Faking his well-being took its toll on Sherlock, mentally more than physically. The whole time Sherlock had images flash through his mind of the night before and was in constant fear of John making another advance. And John knew he was afraid. Sherlock cursed himself for letting his feelings betray him once again.

Back in his room he could hear his phone ping an alert for a text. He guessed it was Lestrade and was proven correct when he checked his phone. He read the man's plea for help on their current case and thought about if it would behoove him to get out of the flat for a bit. He decided some London air and a fresh case might do him good and pocketed hi phone, walking towards the door of the flat.

He grabbed his coat and was almost out the door when John called out to him from his turned position in the chair. "Where're you going?"

Sherlock abruptly halted with hand on the door handle his breath hitching in his throat. "… Out." He said simply.

"Where?" John demanded, getting up from his chair and making his way quickly towards Sherlock.

Sherlock swallowed. "Case. Lestrade texted." His grip on the handle tightened making his knuckles white. What a fool he was! Why didn't he lie to John about where he was going? The man would no doubt want to join him for whatever reason he had. Sherlock definitely couldn't avoid the man if John joined him everywhere he went.

"Well then let's go." John said, reaching for his coat.

Before he could grab it, Sherlock's hand shot out and stopped John's arm. The reaction was immediate. He could instantly feel John's anger and sense of superiority which almost overwhelmed Sherlock's fear. Quickly, Sherlock spoke. "Uh, I'd rather take care of this one myself. I might not even stay long. It doesn't seem too interesting or anything, just something to do. It would be pointless for you to go."

John yanked his arm from Sherlock's light grasp and shrugged his coat on, in spite of the taller man's reasoning for him not to go. "Well, I'll come anyways. No point in me sitting around here doing nothing." He said with a smile. Fake.

"… Alright." Sherlock acquiesced. He swallowed past the tight lump in his throat and could feel sweat gathering at the top of his brow under John's hard stare. Going out in public like this would _not_ end out well.

When the pair arrived at the scene, Sherlock's nerves were anything but calmed. He could still feel John's stare on his back and his own thoughts constantly cycling back to that terrible nigh did nothing to alleviate his anxiety. The dark-haired man could feel his heart pounding hard in his chest, his blood rushing fast in his ears, and his muscles tense with fear. Although he knew John wouldn't dare try anything in public Sherlock still couldn't find it in himself to calm down.

"'Bout time you two showed up." said Lestrade when John and Sherlock walked up to the crime scene. "Got a double homicide. Both males, mid-thirties, and from the looks of it one of 'em was raped. That's all we can tell. But for some reason, we can't find any prints, hair, nothin'. I though you should have a look to see… Hey, Sherlock, you feelin' alright? You look pale. Well pal_er_."

The moment Lestrade had said the word 'raped' Sherlock's normal pallor had gotten even paler. His skin was a sickly white and there was sweat visible on his face. His hands had begun to shake and his already wildly beating heart beat even wilder.

John on the other hand had been glaring at Sherlock from beneath his brows and was able to avoid being seen glaring because of Lestrade's concern with Sherlock's well-being. His hands were clenched tightly behind him and his whole body was tense and ready for action. He wasn't going to let Sherlock tell anyone about what he had done to him. It was their little secret and he doubted anyone would believe him anyways. But still, it never hurt to be cautious.

When Sherlock opened his mouth to speak John cut in before he could get a sound out. "He's fine, just a little sick. I thought it would be a bad idea if we came here, what with his condition and all. We had better leave."

"You do look like you're about to get rid of your lunch, Sherlock. I guess I can send you pictures of the case later. Is there anything I can do though?" the DI asked, directing his question at Sherlock.

"Actually-" Sherlock started.

"We're fine. Thanks anyways." John said, putting a hand on the small of Sherlock's back to give to indication it was time to go. This odd behavior didn't escape Lestrade's keen eyes, however, and he was about to ask if everything was alright between the two of them, but they had already begun walking off. He figured if it was an argument, they could sort it out themselves. And if it wasn't… he would just call or text Sherlock later to find out if things were really okay.

The dark-haired man and the sandy-haired man made their way to the main street to hail a cab and climbed in once they did. They sat in silence, John's mere presence a catalyst to Sherlock's reactions taking place. The sleuth hadn't meant to react like that. He honestly thought he would be able to control himself better than that. He had been so close to telling Lestrade something _was_ wrong. He was not okay he doubted he ever would be.

Sherlock stared straight in front of him while John looked out the window of the cab, occasionally glancing at the other man to make sure he wouldn't have a more serious breakdown in the car. Thankfully for John, nothing of the sort happened and they arrived at Baker Street in what seemed like seconds. Sherlock quickly exited the vehicle, leaving John to pay, and walked briskly through the door to the flat and up the stairs. Once John paid the cabbie, he followed suit with the taller man, catching him on the second flight of stairs leading up to the flat.

John caught Sherlock by the arm, spun him around and pinned him to the wall by leaning his body against the other man's, and pinned his hands to the wall with his.

"What was that all about?" John demanded. His hard gaze made Sherlock turn his head to the side in cowering fear as the shorter man's breath was heavy on his face and neck. "I said… What. Was that. All. About." he repeated with his teeth bared.

Sherlock's mouth was a deep, frightened frown, his breathing through his nose ragged and quick. He didn't answer.

John smirked, obviously proud of how he affected the other man. "Oh, come now, Sherlock, don't tell me it's disturbed you _that_ much?" He paused and stared and the dark-haired man with a half-smile stretching part of his face. His eyelids lowered to cover half of his eyes and he leaned his head forward. His tongue touched Sherlock's neck before his mouth did and it made the dark-haired man jump slightly and tense his whole body. His eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat, a choking noise forcing its way out.

"John…" Sherlock whispered past a sob. "Please, I-" he stopped when John bit down hard on his neck, making the sleuth yelp softly.

"You almost told him didn't you?" John said between the rough kisses he was placing on Sherlock collarbone. He had begun unbuttoning the man's shirt and was groping his member through his trousers. When Sherlock failed to answer, only whimpering in response, John bit him again and said, "Didn't you?"

"N-no. John, please. I wasn't going to. I promise." The detective said past his gasping. He was slowly sinking into the darkness again, and John knew it. He knew he was causing it and he relished it.

"I don't believe you, Sherlock."

At that moment, John roughly turned Sherlock around to where the man's back was facing him and his face was against the wall. He unzipped the taller man's trousers without much trouble and was beginning to unzip his own when Sherlock began sobbing louder than before.

"Please, John I- I wasn't going to, I swear. Please!" He begged.

"Tell me the truth, Sherlock. You fucking lying piece of shit. Tell me!" He yelled as he rolled his hips onto the other man's arse.

"Yes!" Sherlock sobbed. "I was, but I- I changed my mind and I didn't! I'm sorry, please." Sherlock knew he shouldn't show John that the man got to him like this, but with him turned around like this, vulnerable and bare. He was thankful that John still had his pants on over his member, but his own trousers and pants were pulled down enough to bare his arse.

"That's what I thought. Why don't we go to your room, huh?" John said. Sherlock knew what that meant.

"John, no! Please, I- I'm sorry! I-"

John pulled the knife from his pocket and held it to Sherlock's throat, where bruises were already forming from the shorter man's bites. "Get to your room, _now_."

Sherlock jerkily and slowly nodded and pulled up his trousers enough to walk the rest of the stairs and into his room.

"Lay down." John commanded once they were in the sleuth's room.

Sherlock slowly complied, climbing onto the bed with solemnity. John was busy divesting himself of his clothes when Sherlock croaked out a question.

"Why?"

The sandy-haired man stopped. "Why what?" he asked with an annoyed look on his face.

The dark-haired man cleared his throat and clarified. "Why are you… doing this? I thought- I thought-"

"You thought I liked you? That we were friends?" Sherlock nodded. "Then I succeeded in tricking you and earning your trust." John smiled devilishly and went back to undressing himself.

"But, why?" Sherlock asked again.

Once again John halted his movements and looked at Sherlock with annoyed disbelief.

"Why?" Sherlock nodded again. "Because…" John's brow furrowed for a moment before answering fully. "Because I wanted to. I wanted to teach you a lesson."

"For what? What did I do to deserve this?"

"Everything! You're such an ignorant, selfish prick! I didn't hate you immediately, but your fucking attitude helped with that! And it's what I do to people I hate that I know I can get to! Don't feel so special just 'cuz you got fucked by me."

"What do you mean 'it's what you do'?" The detective asked with wide, fearful eyes.

John looked up once again from his procedure of divesting himself of his clothes with wide eyes. He was obviously surprised at himself that he had said that much. In the moment of trying to shut Sherlock up, he had given away his secret.

Well, since he knew now, what was the point of keeping him completely in the dark about it anymore?

"Since you've already drawn your little deductions about it, why don't you tell me what I mean?" John said with a broad smile and his arms folded over his bare chest.

Of course, Sherlock already knew what he meant the moment he had said it. And he was afraid. John had done this before, multiple times, to people he hates, Sherlock deduced. Though he wasn't sure how many times he had done this or how he had escaped the law that number of times, Sherlock knew John was about experienced in this act as Sherlock was in being a consulting detective.

Sherlock also knew that John would ensure that he told no one about this. Any of it.

"Well?" the sandy-haired man said impatiently. His weight shifted onto his better leg and he was tapping his finger against his arm. Sherlock cleared his throat and told John of his deductions that John did this for a so-called living. He was a serial rapist, but not just for anyone. Only persons he hated. He even told John how he knew the man would make sure that Sherlock told no one about anything regarding this.

"You're pretty smart, Sherlock. I can see why you're the world's only consulting detective. But can you tell me _why_ I… hate _you_?" John asked with his brows raised and his smile fading into something more serious. Sherlock shook his head.

"Because you're a fucking git. Because you think you're the best there is, you think you can do anything you want just because you can solve some things the police can't? I just fucking hate you! Why don't you figure out why, huh? You think you're beyond feeling emotions and all? Well I sure proved you wrong, didn't I? By raping you. By fucking you until you begged for mercy, until you cried, until you were sore. Remember that, Sherlock?" John asked while undoing the belt on his trousers. All this time during the man's rant, Sherlock was being to sob and could feel the lump of fear in is throat spread throughout his whole body. He was numb with fear, his heart pounding deep and quick like a frightened rabbit.

"Oh yes, you remember, don't you?" He said mockingly as he climbed into the bed and over Sherlock, who couldn't do anything but lay down onto his back and John began to lube up. "And I'll make you remember even better tonight, dear Sherlock." As John descended onto the dark-haired man with rough bits and kisses and harsh thrusts, Sherlock felt he could be sick right there. He knew John was sick as well, though not physically. There was no way around this and Sherlock knew it. John knew it. They both knew the other was sick and there was no way to fix either of them.


	6. Bare

Johnlock Intoxicated 6- Bare

Once John had finished Sherlock and himself, he had fallen asleep in the man's bed like he belonged there. Like he wasn't Sherlock's rapist, but a lover. He was facing away from Sherlock and his breathing was a constant rhythm letting the detective know he was really asleep.

Sherlock wasn't able to go the sleep. John had raped him again and he felt more helpless than last time. _I just bloody hate you!_ The words ran through his mind over and over. He was rather thankful he was able to focus on those words instead of the act in which he was force to take part in. He was completely numb, and didn't even feel his come on his stomach when he climaxed. He didn't feel when John bit him on his neck, leaving a nasty, bruised hickey. As if Sherlock was John's property, as if the man controlled him.

In a way it was true. John controlled him emotionally. He could make him feel fear, sadness, hopelessness, or make him not feel at all. And all the man had to do was stand near him. The feelings were much more intense when he was naked, his cock hard and throbbing inside him, thrusting relentlessly in and out of the sleuth's bare and bruised arse. How John could completely rob Sherlock of happiness was commendable.

Sherlock didn't have the energy to get back at John. He was completely numb around him, how could he hope to take revenge on him? He turned over, his back to John and him facing the door to his room, and sighed. He considered his options of what to do.

Given that Lestrade already knew something was off between the two, Sherlock could very well tell him. But that would mean he would have to get away from John long enough to explain it to the man because he would definitely want to be in the flesh to hear the detective's tale. If John did end up within the custody for the police, there was no guarantee he would be found guilty on trial, if he was even put on trial. And if he were to be found guilty, Sherlock would have to undergo all sorts of tests to prove that he had indeed been raped. That was _not_ something he was looking forward to. And even if John _was_ found guilty, he would only be in jail for a time and would no doubt want to come back and teach Sherlock another lesson.

Unless of course Mycroft got involved. Sherlock winced at the thought. He had never depended on his brother for anything so… personal since he was a boy. He didn't want to seem like he actually _needed_ his brother for anything, but if that was the case here, there wasn't much he could do about needing him this time. Mycroft might even already know and is just waiting for Sherlock's word that he can intervene. The elder brother had his ways of knowing things, usually via camera, and always did his best to help Sherlock, petty arguments aside.

But something else in Sherlock wanted something other than justice for John. A more primal need. A need for revenge. He couldn't very well just let the police or Mycroft take care of the man without having had his vengeance. The darker side of Sherlock would not have it. But what could he do exactly to take his revenge?

Sherlock wracked his brain for possible ways to get back at John. Not physically, but mentally. Psychologically. But _how_? Suddenly, a light went on in Sherlock's mind. John might be sick, but that didn't mean he was mentally indestructible. The war could still have an effect on him. Sherlock had heard John having dreams, tossing and turning in his bed and waking up with his breathing fast, his bad leg and shoulder hurting more than usual, and him not being able to sleep for the rest of the night. The sleuth smiled manically.

Plans already forming in his mind, he very cautiously got up from his spot on the bed, careful not to wake John. He withdrew from his room as quietly as he could, given his loss of energy from John's more recent actions on him. Once he was out of his room, he made a beeline for the kitchen, made a quick cup of tea, and went to settle himself on the couch. John would most likely be awake soon.

Sherlock's suspicions were confirmed when a groggy and very sleepy looking John emerged from the bedroom. He was scratching his head with one hand while the other was hanging lazily at his side. His eyes roamed the flat before focusing on Sherlock, who looked rather happy with himself. On seeing the man, John dropped his hand from his head and folded his arms over his chest, narrowing his eyes.

"What's that look for?" he asked as he neared the dark-haired man.

"What look?" Sherlock asked innocently.

John rolled his eyes and said, "_That_ look. That smug look on your face… What are you up to?" he asked warily.

"Nothing at all," replied the detective with a confused smile.

"Don't play like that, Sherlock. What's going on?" John asked, looking around the flat for… something, anything, which would give away the taller man's intentions.

"Nothing, John. I promise you," the other man said with a sip of his tea. "Now, if you wouldn't mind, I've got a question for you." he said, setting his tea down.

Now hesitant and leery, John crossed the space between the two and sat on the couch very close to Sherlock. Expecting the dark-haired man to seem more fearful of him, John was struck when Sherlock actually _smiled_ at him. His eyes were easy and the smile was light, letting the sandy-haired man know that Sherlock was absolutely calm.

"…What is it?" John asked warily.

Sherlock's smile stretched wide and piranha like across his face as he asked, "What was going through your head at the time when you killed those poor men in the war?"

John's whole body visibly flinched and his face cringed when Sherlock asked his question. He turned to the other man and glared at him. He was still smiling at John and looked completely at ease. It made John furious.

"What's wrong, John? Do you remember them? Their screams of fear and cries of pain? Do you remember when you were shot? Did you shoot the man back? Did you kill him? Torture him? _Rape_ him? How about the men you commanded, _Captain_? Did you rape the-"

John's hands shot out from where they were resting on his legs and wrapped around Sherlock's neck, forcing the man to make a choked sound in the back of his throat. The sandy-haired man dug his fingers into the other man's hyoid as his face contorted into a snarl. Sherlock, on the other hand, was gasping in tight, strangled breaths and had closed his eyes to concentrate on trying to breathe through John's grip on his throat.

Surprisingly, he was able to choke out a sentence. "Did you…. kill them… too? Like… this?"

John only increased the pressure on Sherlock's neck and shook the man, making his head snap back and forth.

"Shut the bloody _hell_ up, Sherlock," John growled as he released the man's neck when his face started to go a bit blue. Sherlock's hands shot up to his neck and rubbed it, gasping. He looked up at John from beneath his now drooping head and gave him a rebellious smirk.

It made John absolutely furious.

He bolted from his seat on the couch and grabbed Sherlock by the arms, lifting him up and bruising where his fingers dug in. "You're such a bloody _idiot_, Sherlock!" He let go of his arms and pushed him down, parallel on the couch. John pounced on top of the dark-haired man, one hand gripping a fistful of dark, silken curls, effectively holding Sherlock's head down and baring his neck, while the other hand was groping his through his trousers.

Sherlock didn't even resist. He just lay there as John sucked and bit at the flesh on his throat and as he ground up against the man's leg. John growled, disappointed by the lack of fun he was going to have to endure if Sherlock wasn't going to play the game how John wanted him to. Looking up, John saw the detective's face was blank and completely pale. So he was affected.

John smiled and gave a rough kiss to Sherlock's lips before unzipping both of their pants and flipping the man onto his stomach. As he slowly pulled down the man's trousers and pants, he felt his whole body stiffen.

Before John could go any further, his phone in his jeans pocket rang. He cursed and angrily yanked out the mobile, before furrowing his brow.

"Blocked number," he mumbled aloud.

"…Mycroft," Sherlock said quietly.

John inwardly cursed and wondered if Sherlock had contacted his brother at some point. If he had, there would be hell to pay.

He cleared his throat and answered the phone with, "Yes?"

"_I need to speak with you, Doctor Watson. There is a black car outside waiting for you. I will see you in ten minutes,_" came the buzzing voice on the other end of the phone. John stared at his phone for a few seconds after hearing the click that let him know Mycroft had hung up. With a red-hot glare in his eyes he turned to Sherlock, who was looking over his shoulder with anxious fear plastered on his face.

"When did you tell him?" John asked in a knowing and demanding tone.

Sherlock shook his head furiously and said, "No. John I swear I didn't. I would never."

"Yeah? Well, I don't believe you. When I get back you better either be able to prove you didn't tell _anyone_ or be ready for me. Hear me? And if you run of and I find you, it'll be worse than ever before," John growled at the man and, once getting off of him, zipped up his pants, leaving Sherlock to tend to himself. He grabbed his jacket and walked outside and into the car that was indeed waiting for him, as Mycroft had said. He slammed the door shut and watched 221B slip past as the car took off.

"Good morning, Doctor Watson. So glad you could make it. I know you are a busy man," Mycroft said with a fake, tense smile as John walked into the office.

"Yeah, well you didn't give me much of a choice there, did you?" John replied with a fake smile of his own. _'Does he know?'_ he thought. _If _he_ knows, I'm done for. _

"Yes. You know my methods. Have a seat, do get comfortable," he said gesturing quickly to the only other seat in front of his desk.

John, after a brief moment of hesitation, took the seat and awkwardly looked around the room, at his hands, anywhere but the older Holmes brother.

"Something the matter, John?" Mycroft asked, piercing eyes calculating the other man.

"Hm?" said John, turning his attention to Mycroft. When their eyes met, John began to panic inside, afraid the man had figured something out. "Oh. Nothing. I'm fine. Just… what did you need to talk to me for?" he asked wanting to get to business that hopefully didn't involve Sherlock. Unlikely.

"Yes, of course. I wanted to ask you about Sherlock's behavior the other day. At the crime scene?" Mycroft answered with his hands folded together at his chin.

"What do you mean?" asked John, feigning ignorance. He knew exactly what he was talking about. The rape case that they didn't even look at and their sudden exit of the scene.

"You know exactly what I mean, Doctor Watson," he answered with annoyance twisting in his voice.

"Well, he was sick. That's all. He was feeling faint and so I took him back to the flat," he said getting up from the chair slowly. "And I'd like to check on him so… if there's nothing else to talk about…" John made his way around the chair and towards the door before Mycroft spoke again.

"And the truth, Doctor Watson? Lying to me won't do anyone any good."

John froze. _Did he know? No. Of course not. How could he know? There was no way! But still… _The sandy-haired man turned around with a confused smile on his face and did his best to pull off a lie to a Holmes. "Really, that's it. You can call him up if you want. He's fine though. He was just a bit sick the other day. I'm taking care of him, you can rest assured, Mycroft."

The other man regarded him with intelligent eyes before flashing to boredom. "Very well. Tell him to be more careful around the corpses he's always experimenting on."

John smiled. "Of course."

Once getting back to the flat, John called out to Sherlock angrily. "Sherlock! I need to talk to you!" When no answer came he checked the man's bedroom, which was empty. He went upstairs to check his own bedroom as well, which was also empty. "Sherlock?"

Maybe he had told Mycroft and now he was hiding. That bastard. He would _kill_ him. "Sherlock!" he rounded the corner in the doorway and suddenly saw something flying towards his head. Pain exploded in his temple and he collapsed to the ground, unconscious.


	7. Recompense

Johnlock Intoxicated 7- Recompense

"Yeah? Well, I don't believe you. When I get back you better either be able to prove you didn't tell anyone or be ready for me. Hear me?" John said while redressing himself and walking to the door. "And if you run of and I find you, it'll be worse than ever before!" he snarled as he slammed the door shut behind him.

Sherlock was still lying on his stomach on the couch with his pants and trousers pulled down to his knees when John left the room. He slowly pushed himself up on his hands and flipped himself over, pulling his trousers back up and buttoning and zipping them back. He was secretly grateful that his brother chose now to call John. He had stopped what he was doing to Sherlock an now the dark-haired man had time to plan out his revenge.

He knew John was emotional when it came to anything that had to do with the war and planned to use that against him somehow. But the question was what could he do? There were so many possibilities...

Sherlock shook his head, scattering the disorganized thoughts and focusing on the more important matter at hand: how to restrain John. He couldn't just torture the man with thoughts and images of war when he was unrestrained without risking his own well-being.

He could put a sedative in John's tea. No, he most likely wouldn't drink it if Sherlock gave him the cup of tea. Maybe an injection? Good idea, but he didn't have anything on hand to use and it would be quite a struggle getting John still enough to inject him. A gas? No, Sherlock would be affected by it as well. Suffocation? That might actually kill him, and Sherlock didn't want a death on his hands.

He knew he needed John either sedated or unconscious, but there seemed to be no way to attain either of those except for hitting him on the head. Sherlock groaned in dread realization. That was exactly what he'd have to do. He would have to hit John hard enough with the right tool in the right spot to render him unconscious. He sighed. John deserved being hit in the head anyways. Well, he deserved much more than that, but for Sherlock's purposes that would have to do.

Sherlock stood from the couch and began to look around the flat for something he could use on John that wouldn't give him a concussion or kill him. His eyes roamed around the room and landed on the fire iron resting near the fireplace. Sherlock thought for a moment and decided against using it. It was too narrow and would possibly injure John more than that dark-haired man would want. He needed something broad, sturdy, and easy to handle. A pan? That might not actually knock John out, but he would use it if there was nothing else. All he needed to do was apply the right force to the right spot on John's head and it would be fine. Maybe a lamp? No, he didn't want to risk John not passing out and the mess from the broken glass and blood from John would be impossible to clean up completely. And he didn't want to have to explain the mess to Mrs. Hudson.

But what could he use? Sherlock yelled in frustration and whirled around, kicking whatever was in front of him, which happened to be the clothes hanger. Sherlock glared at his Belstaff and the cane in the bin below it, fuming as his glare settled on the narrow wooden object. Sherlock's mind paused and his eyes widened with insight. The _cane_. It was perfect! Not too heavy, easy to swing, and wouldn't put John in a coma when he hit him with it.

He heard the downstairs doorknob rattle. John was home. Sherlock had to think, and quick! Where would John search for him first? The living room would be glanced over, then… John's room. He would then check upstairs quickly first because he would think Sherlock would hide where he least expected then made his escape.

Sherlock grabbed up the cane and rushed into the kitchen, hiding in the corner of the wall separating the kitchen and living room. He gripped the cane painfully tight and held his breath as the door to the flat opened and he heard John yelling Sherlock's name.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" He heard the man check upstairs and a few minutes later he heard the heavy steps thundering through the building. No doubt John would already think that Sherlock had left like he suggested him not to do. He wouldn't expect the blow to his head from around the corner because he was starting to think nobody else would be in the flat.

Sherlock held the cane up to his right, his elbows bent and his heart racing faster, to prepare for the hit. He saw John's foot before he saw his head and tensed up, ready to swing. When the sandy-hair came in to view, Sherlock locked his eyes on the spot below the man's temple and swung. The cane made contact with John's skull with a resounding and satisfying crack.

The dark-haired man let out a breath he only just realised he had been holding and watched as John's unconscious body fell hard and fast to the floor. He dropped the cane and hurriedly picked up John's body, his mind racing of what to do now. He hadn't had time to think of what he was to do after John was unconscious, but now was as good a time as any. His eyes focused on the computer chair John sat at when he was typing his blog. It was good enough. It had arms and legs on it and was stationary. It may not have been the most stable, and Sherlock had told John so many times before that it would eventually break when he sat in it one day, nut it would have to do.

Sherlock winced at the memory. When he thought John was good, was his friend. It pained him to know that he had been so very wrong. That this was what John really was; a monster, come to haunt him at night. A never-relenting force that battered and scarred Sherlock in the most intimate of ways.

No. Sherlock couldn't focus on that now. He needed to get John restrained. He lifted the heavy man and struggled to get him into the chair, half-carrying, half-dragging him. When he finally did set him in the chair, he was halfway on it, and Sherlock adjusted him to where he was fully on it before leaving to look for rope. He had some in his room, for a possible experiment, and ran to get it. He grabbed the rope and came back to John with his head lolling from side to side and his body trying to move and regain consciousness. Sherlock had to work quickly.

Before Sherlock could tie John down, he grabbed a knife from the kitchen and cut the rope into equal lengths, each long enough to secure an arm or leg. He jogged back into the living room and began to wrap the sections of rope around John's wrists and ankles, securing them to the arms and legs of the chair.

He had just fixed up the rope around John when the man was coming back to full consciousness. Sherlock stepped back hastily as John's arms and legs began to move, trying to test if he could move around or not.

"Wh… Ugh, what-" John's eyes were open now and he was looking down at his bindings with a furrowed brow. "What- what is this?" His head snapped up to look at Sherlock. "What did you do?" he demanded in a fierce tone.

Sherlock flinched at the voice, but was able to speak, "I… I knocked you out and tied you up. Obviously."

John only glared at the man; all too aware his fate was in Sherlock's hands now. He smirked. "And why would you do that, Sherlock?" he asked sweetly.

Sherlock gulped and took in a quiet, shuddering breath before answering, "B-Because I plan to give you what you deserve." Sherlock knew that John was no idiot. Sherlock was still afraid of him, tied up or not. It was a primal fear; set in his bones from that first night John had taken him. He could do nothing about it except ignore it while he tortured John.

"And what do I deserve?" John questioned with a cold glare.

"All that I plan to give you," Sherlock answered, busying himself with moving the table to the side to have complete access to John.

"Which would be…?"

Sherlock smiled, revenge humming through his veins. "One moment, and you'll see," he cleared his throat and began to speak while walking closer and closer to John. "John Watson, do you remember your service in the war?"

A muscle near John's mouth twitched and he hesitated before answering, "Yes."

"Good. Then this will be much easier," the dark-haired man said as he clambered down onto his knees between John's legs. He laid his hand on John's knee, gently rubbing his thumb back and forth as he asked, "You _killed _men in the war, correct?"

John clenched his jaw and looked down at Sherlock with blazing eyes. He didn't answer.

Sherlock frowned. "Won't you tell me?" he pouted. John still stayed silent. Sherlock sighed and slowly got up from his feet towering over John as he stared down at him. A few seconds passed before the taller man raised his hand and brought it down fast across the other man's cheek. "Tell me!" he demanded.

John gasped, surprised by the sudden attack and fought to keep his composure. His head was whipped to the side with the impact of the blow and he slowly brought it back to face Sherlock, whose chest was heaving. "Are you still scared of me, Sherlock?" he asked.

He only responded with another slap. The crack bounced off the walls and rung quickly in their ears. Sherlock kept slapping the man until John had had enough.

"Yes! Of course I did Sherlock! I was a soldier! Of course I did!"

"Good," Sherlock panted. "That wasn't so hard now, was it?" He inhaled deeply and wiped his hand on his trouser leg, smearing away any unseen filth from touching John.

John glared daggers at Sherlock, huffing in anger as he watched the man lower himself back down between John's legs.

"Now," he said, "answer the questions when I ask them and you will be rewarded."

John huffed a laugh and said, "You do know being slapped is more annoying than it is painful."

Sherlock smiled and let his hand crawl slightly up John's leg, to rest of the middle of his thigh. "Yes. I know you can tolerate pain. And being annoyed. But I wonder…" Sherlock's eyes flicked to John's crotch and he asked another question before doing anything else. "Did you enjoy killing them, John? Relish the look on their face as the light in their eyes faded?" As he was speaking, Sherlock's hand was slowly traveling upward, toward the man's groin, forcing his body to react to the touch, to the possibility of being touch more intimately.

"Did you enjoy killing them?" he repeated in a stricter tone.

John saw red. He knew what Sherlock was trying to do. He was trying to control him like John had done Sherlock. He was trying to break him, make him afraid. Make him _regret _what he had done to Sherlock.

It would never work.

"You think just because you… you torture me that it'll make me sorry for what I did to you?" He laughed. "Never would I forget the look on your face when I raped you. When I broke you. When you realized that I was never really your friend. That I could never be something more other than what I am now. You said it; a monster. And guess what? I'm your monster. I'll haunt you for the rest of your life. Torturing me won't erase the memory and you know it," John finished with a snarl.

Sherlock's eyes had taken on a distant look as John had spoken and his face was frozen in a haunted frown. John gave a chuckle of victory, which brought Sherlock back to earth. He looked at John, confused, then changed his expression into something more stolid, more blank. He was still situated between John's legs and all of a sudden grabbed John's crotch firmly, making John groan out loud. Sherlock squeezed John's hardening member with a shaking hand and repeated his question once again, "Did you enjoy killing them?!"

The dark-haired man used his other hand to slap John again, still groping him roughly. "Do you remember them, John?"

The sandy-haired man grunted angrily.

Sherlock growled in frustration and snatched his hand away from John's clothed member as he jumped up from the floor to his full height. "Stay put," he mumbled. He went to his room quickly and returned with a black riding crop. "Now, this _will_ hurt more than just a slap. Probably more annoying too." As he walked over to John, Sherlock noticed the man's bulge in his pants. He gulped. John wasn't supposed to actually be enjoying this. The whole point of this was to frighten John; to make him afraid in some way. He was doing something wrong. Was he not talking about the war enough? Was he letting him talk too much? Was he being too gentle in bringing pain to John? Possibly. He needed to focus on something more personal to John. Something that haunted _him_. But what?

John shifted in his seat, rolling shoulders back and cocking his head to one side. That was when it hit Sherlock. His bullet wound. The man had fucking nightmares about it, of course that was what haunted him. It wasn't killing men either; it was not being able to save them like he had been saved.

Sherlock smiled devilishly and sauntered over to John, who eyed him and the riding crop warily. "Are you going to answer the question, John?" Sherlock asked as he lowered the riding crop to the man's crotch.

John only glared at Sherlock with a smirk.

A muscle near Sherlock's mouth twitched and without warning, he raised the tool and brought it down hard against John's face. He immediately yelled out in pain, cursing the other man's name and twisting his head away from him. Sherlock, however didn't relent. He brought down the tool again and again, hitting the side of John's face, his shoulder, his chest, and even his crotch. John stopped yelling in favour of only grunting in pain, refusing to give Sherlock any more satisfaction than that.

"Tell me, dammit!" Sherlock yelled as he brought it down once more on John's face. The poor man had red welts all over him, some bleeding, others becoming inflamed. Sherlock stopped long enough to catch his breath and give John a chance to answer.

"… Yes," John mumbled quietly.

"Sorry?" Sherlock teased, holding a hand to his ear, as if he didn't hear him.

"Yes!" he repeated with a growl. The man eyes bored into Sherlock's, making him freeze for a second before snapping out of his fear.

"Now," Sherlock said, as he laid the riding crop down lightly on the table behind him, "Where were we?" Sherlock lowered himself once again between John's legs and asked his next question. "When were you shot?"

John visibly flinched and Sherlock smiled triumphantly before masking his glee. "What?" he whispered.

Sherlock raised his brows at John as he slid his hands up the man's thighs. "I asked, when were you shot?" he said innocently as he rested a firm hand on John's bulge. He shifted beneath Sherlock's touch uncomfortably before hesitantly answering, "I don't remember."

"You're lying," Sherlock stated reaching for the riding crop.

"I'm not," John insisted. One of Sherlock's hands was still on John's clothed member and he massaged it gently, making the other man moan slightly. Sherlock faltered and John chuckled as he noticed the man's discomfort.

"Is it hard, Sherlock? How hard am I? I bet you like it. I bet you even liked it when I—" John was cut off with Sherlock's grip tightening painfully on his member.

Sherlock sighed shakily and reached for the riding crop once again.

John, confused, said, "I answered your question. What are you doing?"

Sherlock mumbled to himself, "You're not supposed be enjoying this…" He spoke louder this time, so John could hear, "You're being punished. Obviously."

John huffed in laughter and tensed up, unconsciously preparing for the blow. Sherlock hummed in glee.

He was about to bring the tool down upon John once again, but stopped when Lestrade burst through the door.

"What have you two been doin'? I've been calling and texting. I've a got a case—" He stopped speaking when he saw the scene before him. He asked seriously, in a tone reserved for the criminals he put in jail, "What's going on here?"


	8. Conquer

Johnlock Intoxicated 8- Conquer

"What's going on here?"

Lestrade walked through the door and began to talk about a case he had when he lifted his eyes and saw the terrible scene before him.

"Lestrade!" John exclaimed. "Finally! He's been hurting me for hours; hitting me, using the riding crop and—" his features softened and he faked the tears that rolled down his cheeks, "… and… touching me."

Meanwhile, Sherlock dropped the riding crop and stood frozen in his spot while John lied—well he didn't lie, but he made it seem like _he_ had been the victim—to Lestrade about what was going on.

"Please, you have to let me go. Untie me, Lestrade! Please!" John begged desperately. He wriggled against his bindings and looked at the DI with wild eyes.

Lestrade slowly approached John, keeping his eyes locked on the stunned Sherlock, and held his hand on the butt of his gun, wary of what the dark-haired man might do. Once at John's side, Lestrade took a moment to make sure Sherlock would stay put, then bent down to untie the man. When he was done and straightened back up, his eyes made contact with Sherlock's and he saw the most vivid emotions in his eyes: fear, betrayal, anger. He did a double take of the man's face and saw the fear take over his face when looking at John. Lestrade glanced at the sandy-haired man and saw a smug look of triumph on his features. His brow furrowed and he asked again, "What's going on here?"

Sherlock made a noise in his throat, as if trying to speak, but only rasped the word "he". His eyes were focused on John's and he eventually found the power to look away and clear his throat before saying, "He… he hurt me, Lestrade. He hurt me."

The DI narrowed his eyes slightly and glanced between the two men. "From what I saw, Sherlock, it looked like you were hurting him."

Sherlock shook his head furiously, the vigorous movement contrasting to the rest of his frozen body. "I wasn't—I mean, I guess I was, but he didn't care. He deserved it. He didn't care." His voice shook with the last sentence and he trembled as Lestrade raised a hand to the man's shoulder.

John looked at Lestrade with disbelief. "You're not seriously believing _him_, are you? He was practically torturing me!" he said incredulously.

"I don't know what to believe. If you boys'll come down to the station with me, we can get the sorted."

"You're arresting us? Arresting me? I didn't do anything!" John said, not believing his luck.

"If you come down to the station cooperatively, then I won't have to. There's got to be a reason he did this to you. He's not the psychopath people think he is," Lestrade said assuredly. He turned to Sherlock and asked, "You'll come down to the station, won't you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock merely nodded, too numb to speak. Possibilities of what would happen to him were running through his mind as he knew John would twist the story to make himself look like the victim and Sherlock like the bad guy.

"Good," Lestrade said, relieved, "Now, if you'll both come with me, we can get this all sorted." He gestured a commanding 'come here' motion with his hand and waited for the two other men to make their way to the door.

Sherlock moved first, following Lestrade quickly through the door, not realizing that John was right on his heels, his hand possessively gripping the neck of his Belstaff, his hand and arm hidden from the DI's view, who had his back turned to the two men.

John leaned in close to Sherlock, his entire frame pushing against the dark-haired man's back, the heat from his earlier arousal and anger still prevalent in the temperature of his body through the thick coat and layers of clothes.

The sandy-haired man leaned up on his tip-toes, and pulled Sherlock down a little before whispering harshly, "If you tell anyone, and I mean _anyone_, what happened, I will kill you. I will take you again like I have before and fucking kill you. Hear me?" He gave Sherlock a slight shake before backing away when Lestrade turned to check on the two men behind him. He gave a thoughtful look at them when he saw Sherlock's haunted and unusually pale face twisted tight with fear. Lestrade knew something here was not what it seemed. He might not be the world's only consulting detective, but that didn't mean he was some pushover. Sherlock was afraid of something and Lestrade got the feeling that that something was a someone.

A someone that was behind Sherlock now.

It was a wild thought, coming out of nowhere with no evidence—well there might be evidence, but none Lestrade deemed tangible. Like physical proof or alibis. Things like that was what Lestrade needed, not just a gut feeling that latched itself deep in his stomach and mind, feeding off of every little movement John made towards Sherlock, or Sherlock moving away from John. Something was definitely wrong between those two and it wasn't something good like he had thought when he first met John.

"Right," Lestrade said once the three were at the car. It was the standard police car, none of the lights blazing or horns blaring. "John you get in the back. Sherlock you sit up front with me."

"Why isn't he sitting in the back too? I thought we were both being taken in. Shouldn't he have to sit back there as well?" John complained before he could even think about not speaking.

Sherlock swallowed timidly, waiting for the solid reason Lestrade would give for Sherlock sitting up front instead of the back; he didn't want to be stuck in the back with John so close. The reason never came.

The DI sighed and scratched the back of his head in mild frustration. "Alright, you've got a point. Just, uh, no speaking or anything. If I catch one of you speaking to the other, he sits up front. Understood?"

John smiled slightly and nodded firmly. While Sherlock gave a feeble nod to the ground, John opened the backseat door by Sherlock and gestured for him to get in.

After a moment's hesitation, Sherlock ducked his head and entered the vehicle averting his eyes from John's heated glare. He scrambled in, quickly followed by John, who sat a little too far on Sherlock's side of the car, their knees touching. Sherlock stared at the back of the passenger seat in front of him and could feel John staring at him. He turned his head slightly and out of the corner of his eye say John smiling widely and looking down on Sherlock.

John noticed Sherlock's glance and lifted a finger up to his lips, reminding Sherlock to tell no one the truth.

He didn't plan on telling anyone.

It wasn't only embarrassing in the worst kind of way, but it was also degrading. He was overpowered so easily by this man, who was drunk at the time, and he had taken Sherlock and enjoyed it. And Sherlock didn't do anything. He had told no one and knew there would be consequences if he did. It was a constant battle in his mind of whether or not he should let at least _someone_ know about what happened to him, the good consequences usually outweighing the bad. But the bad consequences were more than Sherlock felt he could handle. John would definitely take him again and might do worse to him. He didn't want that.

He didn't want any of this. He _never_ wanted any of this. Why him?

After a few more minute's thought, Sherlock came to the conclusion that he would tell someone. It might not be Lestrade, but for God's sake he needed to tell someone. But it had to be someone of authority, so John would be taken care of like he should be and Sherlock could live again without having to fear for his safety with the man he lives with. The only other person Sherlock could think of was Mycroft and though he trusted his brother, he felt it would be a form of defeat and submission to him, and Sherlock didn't want that.

He glanced and john again and found him staring with such intensity that Sherlock had to quickly look away and stare out the window. He tried to calm himself by watching the buildings, people, and other cars pass by, but failed when he felt John's hand high up on his leg. His blood ran cold in his frozen veins and his breath hitched in his throat. John rubbed his thumb back and forth near Sherlock's crotch and squeezed his thigh firmly. Sherlock tried to scoot away from the man, but only caused John to move his hand right on his crotch. He whimpered softly and shut his eyes when John began to grope and massage his member. In spite of the situation, his cock was slowly hardening from the physical touch.

Suddenly, the car was stopped, John quickly removed his hand and rested it in his own lap, and Lestrade exited the car. Lestrade went around to the other side of the car to open Sherlock's door first, then going around to John's side to do the same.

Once both men were out of the vehicle, Lestrade gestured towards the building and said, "This way. And—don't talk to anyone unless you're in the interrogation rooms. Understand?"

"Understood," John said firmly as Sherlock silently nodded.

All three men walked briskly into the building and into the specified rooms, neither John nor Sherlock talking to anyone on the way. Donovan and Anderson were there working, and, upon seeing Sherlock, a look of hatred and disgust crossed their faces. When they saw where the men were headed, their faces fell into an expression of confusion and slight concern. They kept it to themselves, and after giving each other a look of confusion they went back to work.

Upon entering the interrogation room, Sherlock sat down at the table, which was the only piece of furniture in the room besides chairs, and John took a seat next to him.

"Ah, no. Come on, John. You're going to another room," Lestrade said, making a sweeping motion towards the door.

John opened his mouth to argue, but quickly shut it, knowing this was procedure and that he wouldn't be able to change the DI's mind. He looked at Sherlock with a hard glare and got up to follow Lestrade to his own room, leaving Sherlock alone.

But only for a moment as there was a knock on the door and it opened as Mycroft strode in. He was wearing a black suit with a tan waistcoat and a maroon tie, holding his umbrella in his right hand lightly.

"Hello, little brother. Gotten into a bit a trouble, haven't we?" the older man lilted.

Sherlock didn't speak, only looked down at the table in front of him.

Mycroft sighed and looked around the room with distaste, wrinkling his nose at the damp smell and squinting his yes in the dim light filling the room. "I came over as soon as I was informed that you and Dr. Watson seemed to have been taken in," he said. "Care to tell me why?"

Sherlock only stared wide-eyed at the table and swallowed hard.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said firmly, making the other man slowly look up. Mycroft set down his umbrella lightly and leisurely walked over to Sherlock and stood behind him.

The dark-haired man knew his older brother was trying to intimidate him into telling him what happened. But it wasn't going to work. It wouldn't. It _couldn't_.

But it was.

Mycroft rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulders making him flinch and leaned down where his mouth was right behind his ear and whispered softly, "What has John done to you?"

Sherlock choked on a sob as he leaned forward, away from Mycroft. He brought his arms around his torso and wrapped himself in his long limbs.

"What. Did. He. Do," Mycroft demanded fiercely as he tightened his grip on Sherlock's shoulders.

Sherlock shuddered and lowered his head.

The older man softened his grip and tone as he said, "Please tell me, Sherlock."

The dark-haired man lifted his head and glared at the door across the room from him. He stopped shuddering and said emotionlessly, "He raped me."


	9. Silence

Silence

"He raped me," Sherlock said emotionlessly.

Mycroft let go of his brother's shoulders and straightened up. "That's what I thought," he said shortly. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to have a word with Dr. Watson."

Sherlock's eyes widened and he sucked in a quick breath. "No!" he yelled.

Mycroft's own eyes widened and his brow furrowed as he slightly tilted his head to the side. "And why not?" he asked, blinking slowly. "Be—because…" Sherlock started. He lowered his head in solemn thought.

"Exactly. There is no logical reason why I should not talk with him, maybe even punish him," Mycroft huffed as he held his nose in the air stubbornly and adjusted his waistcoat.

Sherlock's head snapped up and he yelled, "No! He'll—he'll…"

"He'll what?" Mycroft asked sincerely.

"… He'll hurt me again," Sherlock rasped, barely holding back a sob.

"Sherlock, if you think I will let him anywhere near you even again, you are mistaken. I plan on having my men take him to a secluded area once I am done talking with him and when I am back here with you," Mycroft assured in a slightly scolding tone.

After a moment of silence, Mycroft moved to the door, ready to exit, but stopped when he heard a soft voice speak behind him.

"You promise?"

Mycroft turned around and locked his eyes with Sherlock's. "Absolutely."

When Mycroft arrived at the room john was being held in, he saw the DI sitting adjacent to John at the grey metal table, his hands folded over each other and a neutral expression on his face.

When he entered, Lestrade rose from his seat and walked over, his hand extended.

"I understand you're Sherlock's brother. Mycroft?" Lestrade asked, his hand still extended.

Mycroft merely glanced down at the man's outstretched hand. "Mr. Holmes, please Detective Inspector," he said in an annoyed voice as if he corrected the man many times before.

"Right, sorry," he said as he dropped his hand, "You know John. Do you know what the problem is between him and Sherlock? I caught them in some kind of torture session. I heard you talked with Sherlock. What'd he say?" Lestrade asked.

Mycroft only tilted his head at the DI and moved his eyes to rest on John, who was glaring at Mycroft with intense, searing heat, like he would strangle the man given the chance.

Talking to Lestrade, but looking at John, Mycroft said, "Yes, I just finished my talk with Sherlock. And he told me something very interesting." He paused. "Care to take a guess, Dr. Watson?"

John only kept glaring at the man.

"Very well. I will inform Detective Inspector Lestrade of the situation," he said coldly. He turned to Lestrade and sighed before saying, "Sherlock has told me that John raped him."

Lestrade took a step back as if he was slapped. "What?"

"You heard me, Detective Inspector," Mycroft said with finality as he folded his hands together.

The DI glanced at John for a second before turning back to Mycroft and whispering, "And you believe him?"

"Completely," he answered in a confidence that could not be questioned.

Lestrade propped his hands on his hips and thinned his lips in thought. Finally, he turned and walked over to John, laid his hands flat on the table and leaned over the man, and said, "John?"

"They have no evidence," John snapped a bit too quickly.

"Yes, well, none of that matters. Whether or not you believe Sherlock, Dr. Watson will be under my jurisdiction. He will be dealt with accordingly and I will now have my men take him." He went over to the door and opened it. Soon after it opened, two big, burly men walked into the room and stood on either side of John, facing him.

"You can't do this," John panicked in disbelief, his eyes wide with fear.

"I can and I will, Dr. Watson. Perhaps you should have thought about your actions before acting on them," Mycroft said coldly.

"Hold on, hold on," Lestrade intervened as he held his hands up in confusion. "Just _whose_ jurisdiction can you control all of this"

Mycroft raised his brow. "_My_ jurisdiction, Detective Inspector." He reached into his pocket on the inside of his suit jacket and pulled out and envelope. He handed it to Lestrade and said, "Please, do open it."

Lestrade took the envelope and tore it open. There were a few sheets of paper inside, folded into thirds with words filling each page. He glanced up at Mycroft questioningly before unfolding the pages and skimming the words. His mouth parted and his eyes widened a fraction in surprise.

"Oh… Uh, well… Right. My mistake Mycr—Mr. Holmes. He's all yours."

John was silent and he was glaring at Mycroft again, the fear from before dissipating into hatred.

"Now," Mycroft said as he wrinkled his nose in disgust at John, "just one more thing and I will be out of your hair Detective Inspector." He walked over to John, who was still between Mycroft's men, and stood before him silence.

After a few moments of tense silence, Lestrade spoke, "What are you do—" He cut himself off when he saw Mycroft quickly rear his hand back and bring it forward swiftly to John's face.

Mycroft's hand made contact with the other man's mouth in a sickening cracking sound. The posh man was stronger than he looked. John fell backwards to the floor and brought his hand up to his bleeding nose and mouth.

"What the bloody hell!" he yelled, the words muffled through his hand.

"Now that that's over with," Mycroft panted, clearly exhilarated by the punch, "I will leave with Dr. Watson." He made his way for the door, the two burly men grabbing John by the arms and hauling him up and following Mycroft.

"Get your hands off me!" john whined as he struggled and writhed against the mens' grip. They ignored him. Mycroft, John, and Mycroft's men exited the interrogation room, leaving behind a very stunned Lestrade.

Once they were outside the room, Mycroft said to the men, "Take him to the listening room next to Sherlock's interrogation room." They nodded and dragged john forward, who began to yell all sorts of curses and threats to anyone that came near him.

Mycroft made a sound of disgust and seethed, "And for God's sake, keep him quiet!"

Quickly, one of the two men pulled out a cloth gag from his trouser pocket while the other man held John from behind. The man with the gag tied the cloth tightly around John's mouth, which was still bleeding.

"If you wish to leave here without further harm, Dr. Watson, I suggest you be good, quiet, and follow my orders," Mycroft said sharply.

A muscle in John's face twitched and he glared at Mycroft, hatred emanating from him.

"Take him to the room," Mycroft commanded.

The two men walked with John to the door down the hall that led to the listening room.

"Now," Mycroft sighed once the three other men entered the room, "to talk with Sherlock."

Mycroft opened the door to Sherlock's interrogation room. He was surprised to see his little brother's face streaked with tears, his eyes red and puffy.

"Sherlock…" Mycroft said softly, his face dropping into pity.

"Don't," Sherlock spat. "What did he do?"

Mycroft sighed and sat down across the table from Sherlock, his head hanging down a bit. "He cooperated well enough, for a criminal."

Silence ensued and Sherlock sniffed and wiped his face on the sleeve of his Belstaff.

"I came back here to ask you what you wanted to happen to John now that he's under my control," Mycroft finally said, lifting his head up and tapping the table in front of Sherlock for him to do the same. "Sherlock, answer me."

Sherlock shrugged, his head still hanging down.

"It's your decision," Mycroft informed.

"I know," Sherlock replied lowly. "I don't care I just…" he sighed, frustrated.

"You just what?" the elder Holmes asked sincerely.

"I don't know. I don't know what I want to happen to him," Sherlock finally answered.

Mycroft sighed deeply and stared at Sherlock, deducing his well-being.

He looked horrible. His skin was a pale grey color and his eyes had dark circles under them. He was shaking slightly and his eyes were flicking all over the room in anxiety.

"Sherlock, you're safe now. He won't bother you ever again." Mycroft promised, his eyes assuring Sherlock that his promise was good and true.

The dark-haired man looked up with a vulnerable expression on his face. "You mean it?"

"Of course I do," Mycroft assured firmly.

Sherlock stared at his older brother for a moment before looking back down at the table and mumbling, "I don't want to see him ever again. I want him to be put through what he put me through."

"Of course," Mycroft mumbled back softly.

Suddenly, there was a bang on the two-way mirror in the room and muffled sounds of yelling. Seconds later, John came bursting through the door, a knife in his right hand. He focused on Sherlock, who jumped up from his seat, a wild, fearful expression plastered on his face. Mycroft stood as well, ready to protect Sherlock from John if that's what it came to.

The sandy-haired man lunged for Mycroft first, the hand holding the knife outstretched. Before Mycroft could dodge the attack, the blade sank deep into the middle of the man's gut. He made a choked sound and doubled over and John yanked the knife out and made his way for Sherlock. Mycroft fell to the floor, too numb and dizzy to get up and help his younger brother.

John jumped wildly at Sherlock who was backed into the corner, cowering in fear. He had his arms held up in front of him, trying to create some sort of protection from the other man. Before the knife reached Sherlock, there was a loud shot that rang through the room. In mid-air, John was shot and his body collided with Sherlock's

Lestrade stood in the doorway of the room, the hand holding his gun outstretched, now aimed at nothing but the wall, which was now spattered with blood. He was breathing hard and his eyes were wide, is mouth parted in surprise.

Sherlock on the other hand was screaming, flailing underneath John as the blood from the wound gushed onto him.

Lestrade started towards Sherlock and at that moment, Donovan and Anderson came running.

"Take care of him!" Lestrade yelled, pointing to Mycroft who was still on the floor, quickly losing consciousness and blood. "Get him to the hospital!" He ran over to Sherlock once Donovan and Anderson busied themselves with helping the elder Holmes brother.

"Get him off, get him off!" Sherlock sobbed. Lestrade quickly grabbed John by the jacket on his back and hauled him off the poor man. When he turned him over, he saw the bullet wound in the middle of his forehead.

John was dead.


	10. Never

Intoxicated 10- Never

It was three weeks since John was murdered, Mycroft stabbed, and Sherlock freed from his rapist's bindings.

John died the instant the bullet entered his head, and Lestrade struggled to deal with the fact that he had killed his friend, regardless that he had raped Sherlock. He still couldn't get over the fact that _John_, of all people, was the one who had raped a threatened Sherlock- made the man so fearful of him. But overall, Lestrade was taking the shocking news surprisingly well, along with the knowledge that _he_ was the one who had killed John.

Once they learned what happened to Sherlock, Anderson and Donovan seemed to pity the man. They wouldn't question him as to why he was on a crime scene, they wouldn't mock him or call him names, and they would occasionally help him since he didn't have a partner to assist him anymore.

Sherlock hated it. He wanted to be treated like he used to be before John ever came along, before Sherlock trusted him, before everything happened. But there was no such mercy for the detective. He only ignored their lack of insults and never returned the help they gave him.

When Mrs. Hudson found out, she burst into tears, crying and wailing words that told Sherlock that she thought everything was he fault—that she should have seen the signs and done something, that she knew something was so very wrong between the two, but she didn't want to make it worse between them by mentioning anything. Sherlock quickly crossed her kitchen to reach the ailing woman and hugged her tightly. When he pulled back, he rested his hands on her shoulders and said with a smile, "Look, I'm fine." They both knew that this wasn't the case, however, he would never be truly 'fine'. But Mrs. Hudson just smiled back and nodded, wanting to believe the lie.

A few weeks after being taken to the hospital by Anderson and Donovan, Mycroft was now fully healed and had escaped with a clean, non-lethal wound, which needed only seven stitches. He was obviously shocked by what happened not just to him, but to John's fate as well. What Lestrade did was brave and quick-thinking; he saved his and Sherlock's life. Mycroft was grateful, and as soon as he was out of the hospital he thanked the DI, being sure to tell Lestrade that if he ever needed a favour- a criminal interrogated, information gathered- all he had to do was call.

Sherlock was palpably traumatized- by the rape and John's sudden and mercifully quick death. He was relieved he would never have to see John again- that he would never be tortured by the man again. But despite that fact, Sherlock despised Lestrade for his action. Hated Lestrade for giving John a quick, painless death. He hated John too for being given such mercy. Sherlock didn't know when he started to hate John. During the times of his rape, Sherlock still held out hope that John would come to his senses, beg for forgiveness, loathe what he had done to his friend. But no such senses were awakened. Sherlock reckoned he started to abhor John when his brother spoke with him, made him realise John would rape him again, given the chance, and definitely would never feel guilt over his actions.

And now John never would.

With John's death came the need to dispose of John's body and his belongings from 221B Baker Street. Mycroft sent his men into the room where John lay dead and bleeding profusely from the gaping hole in his head and ordered them to take his body to the building with the freezer to freeze his body for the time being. While still in the hospital, Mycroft ordered his men to clear the flat of everything that belonged to John; his laptop, his clothes, his unused cane, even the food he bought. The business was quick and quiet, neither Sherlock nor Mrs. Hudson home at the time of the 'cleaning'.

By the time Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson were back home, previously occupied with Mycroft and Lestrade, they discovered that half of the objects in 221B were gone. They never spoke about it.

Sherlock lived fine without John. He taught himself in the areas that he was more or less ignorant of and where John excelled. He was able to solve cases quicker and learned to cope with the lack of compliments that were uttered once the stream of deductions left Sherlock's lips. In his mind, however, he could always hear John's voice when he charmed Sherlock with his sweet words. Sherlock eventually got used to the quiet in the flat, in the cabs, at Bart's learning to focus on things other than the sound of John making tea and the kettle screaming, the laptop keys clacking after a case was solved, and the annoyed and slightly disappointed noises when he laid eyes on Sherlock's most recent experiment.

Sherlock knew that, before everything happened, he considered John a friend. But he had considered him much more, much closer, than just a friend. On more than one occasion he felt he had romantic and even sexual attraction to his friend. And, on more than one occasion, he got urges to express his feelings, whether they be romantic or sexual. Being the detective he is, Sherlock was able to think of possible scenarios if he ever acted on those urges. They ranged from John being disgusted- never wanting to talk to the detective again and leaving him alone in the flat and alone on cases- to relief or joy- John would smile and pull him in for a kiss or hug, and mutter, "Thank God," while he held Sherlock in his arms.

But mental scenarios and the actual world are very different and it never, never, occurred to Sherlock that John was the monster he is. Sherlock's eyes were opened to how cruel and deceiving people could actually be, even those close to him. Sherlock vowed to himself to never let anyone close ever again. Already his mind as fouled with the images and feelings of John, the man he let close to him, raping him. He couldn't risk another distraction from Work. Never again would he attach or infatuate himself with another lest they destroy him from the inside out.


End file.
